Worth a Thousand Words
by Checkerboards
Summary: Riddle me this, riddle me that, who is the man inside the Bat?...oh, it's Bruce Wayne. Wait, what?
1. The Beginning of the End

_"The door flew open, in he ran,_

_The great, long, red-legged scissorman." - "The Story Of Little Suck-a-Thumb"_

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* * *

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Choosing a costume is possibly the most important thing one can do upon becoming a hero or villain. Oh, certainly it's important to save the world from giant killer alien robots or threaten the world with instant nuclear death if you don't get a Twinkie _right now. _But without a costume that says _I am awesome, I am the best there is, and don't you dare cross me_, no one's ever going to pay any attention to you. (The attention you _want_, at any rate. Dressing up as Henry the Happy Hamster will get you lots of attention, though it might be difficult to achieve your goals when you are armed solely with cuddly fur and mighty cheek-pouches.)

And when your powerset is virtually empty - no super-strength, no otherworldly control of plants or animals, no insanity keyed at just the right point to cause the maximum amount of trouble for everyone but yourself - really, the costume is all you have, so it had better be great.

Some villains spent weeks on their costumes, or at least paid someone to spend weeks on it for them. Some villains labored for years to continually update and modify their gear so that they would always be ready for anything. But some villains just didn't care. Having a costume meant that Gotham cops were more likely to leave you alone until they got some vigilante reinforcement. So some villains, playing the odds, merely slapped some half-hearted decorations on a second-hand jumpsuit and deemed it to be good enough for Gotham.

Of course, this strategy only worked if you were lucky enough not to cross Batman's path. Unfortunately, tonight's aspiring villain had managed to attempt a break-in on a penthouse located directly on one of Batman's many patrol routes.

Batman ducked as another carelessly bundled set of scissors sailed through the air at his head. The open blades skittered across the fabric of his cape, leaving a little trail of broken threads as they tumbled away. A second set arced down from the sky and landed against a pointed Bat-ear, slicing through the protective outer layer and severing a handful of wires before bouncing off into the alleyway below.

_The Scissor Man_, Batman thought in disgust. He was intensely familiar with a very large selection of poetry, courtesy of the Riddler, and the poem featuring the Scissor Man had never been one of his favorites. He supposed he should be grateful that this Scissor Man wasn't following in the red-legged footsteps of his namesake. Batman knew for a fact that the targeted penthouse contained no children or thumb-sucking adults - just loads and loads of gems in the lady of the house's jewelry collection.

As well as the missing motivation, this Scissor Man had also bypassed the traditional 1800's knee breeches in favor of a bright red jumpsuit covered with glued-on scissors. Long, sharp fabric scissors gleamed on his arms, while his torso was covered in shining kitchen shears that had been disassembled for maximum coverage. A few sets of bright red safety scissors filled in the gaps, completing the outfit in the traditional "hastily-thrown-together-with-no-budget" look that was so popular among new rogues in the past few years.

The sharply dressed Scissor Man desperately flung himself across an alleyway, leaping from rooftop to rooftop like a rabbit with malfunctioning hindquarters. "Cut it out, Batman," he cried, his tone trying for Evil All-Powerful Villain but stopping short at Terrified Fugitive. "You'll never catch the Scissor Ma-_aaaaaaaaaohohohOOF_!" The _clang_s and _crack_s of various bits of his costume connecting with the ill-placed fire escape were accompanied by a descant of fervent swearing.

Batman came to a slow, deliberate stop and reached one-handed into the pile of aspiring rogue. He lifted the slight man by the back of the neck as if he was holding a recalcitrant cat. The man kicked wildly at him. One of the sets of scissors glued to his shoes fell noisily to the ground. Batman shook him admonishingly. "Playtime is _over_," he growled softly.

"No it isn't! No it isn't!" the Scissor Man yelped. "What about _this_?" On cue, his scissor-bladed hands _snick_ed out and clawed wildly at Batman's cowl.

Many people had tried to cut off the cowl, thinking it was mere fabric or rubber. Unbeknownst to them, the cowl was lined with enough armor, wiring, and advanced technology to make it into a tiny fortress atop Batman's head. Batman ignored the man's flailing and pointedly dropped him back onto the fire escape.

_Wham_. "You..." the Scissor Man mumbled, "...are not nice." He shook his head sharply, not noticing a pair of nail scissors as they dislodged themselves from his hood. Batman reached down again to haul the man onto the rooftop for the traditional post-chase handcuffing.

As his black-gloved hand reached for the disoriented criminal, the man yelped and scooted backward. His rear end dangled helplessly in midair as his scissor-coated head _whang_ed into the safety railing on the fire escape.

Batman swooped forward, attempting to grab the man as he slithered backward into empty air. "Nonono_nonononoooo_..." the Scissor Man wailed, clawing wildly at whatever he could reach. Batman dropped to the metal floor of the fire escape as ten razor-sharp blades whipped through the air, biting deep into the back of his armor as the terrified rogue tried his best to hold on to whatever he could reach.

Many things are important to take into consideration when designing a working outfit. In this case, the Scissor Man should probably have taken into account the fact that most of Gotham was made of metal or concrete, and that plating oneself with metal meant that one would lose a lot of traction very quickly.

Fortunately for him, the fire escape was only a mere three stories above ground. And, even better, there was a dumpster below full of nice soft garbage to cushion his fall. Best of all, it would take Batman a whole fifteen seconds to catch up with him!

The Scissor Man was obviously not in an optimistic frame of mind. He scrambled out of the garbage and immediately took off down the street, trying his best to ignore the bits of rotten food and other detritus that had speared itself on his costume like a cocktail weiner snuggling around a toothpick. Batman followed close at his heels, wrinkling his nose slightly at the redolent scent of filth that wafted in the Scissor Man's wake.

With a deer-like bound, the Scissor Man leaped onto the back of a pickup truck. The blades on his fingers shrieked as they scraped across the hatchback. He pulled himself into the truck bed, whirling around just in time to see Batman's incoming feet aimed directly at his exposed chest.

_Thud_.

Batman tended to do well against knife fighters. For one thing, in order to hurt anyone with a knife, the fighter in question would have to be right up close - and _no one_ wanted to get up close and personal with Batman.

No one, that is, except an overconfident rogue with some mild head-trauma-induced delirium. "_The great tall tailor always comes to little boys that suck their thumbs_!" he yelled, striking an offensive pose as best he could while trying to stay upright in the bouncing truck bed. Batman allowed himself a short, sharp sigh of irritation and braced a foot on the hatchback in preparation for a leap forward whenever the jittering Scissor Man made his move.

And this would all have been very dramatic, had it not been for the fact that Bat-brawls tend to make a lot of noise, attracting the attention of certain pickup drivers who instinctively slam on the brakes at the sight of a metallic madman and a brawny Batman duking it out in the back of their vehicle.

The Scissor Man and Batman, obeying the laws of physics, catapulted over the roof of the truck and rolled down the hood, wrestling to get the upper hand before they hit the ground. Brakes screeched around them as vehicles skidded to a halt in order to see this once-in-a-lifetime battle in the middle of the intersection. Pedestrians elbowed each other out of the way to get a better view.

The Scissor Man, on the bottom of the heap of Bat-fury, lashed out wildly with his hands, scraping hopelessly at Batman's back. The fingerblades caught in a crease in the cowl's neck. The rogue hauled on his hand, cursing as Batman's knee caught him in the stomach. He pulled desperately.

The cowl, weakened from a night of being cut, shredded, stabbed, scraped, and mutilated, made an odd whirring noise. Sparks flew from wiring that had been severed by lucky scissor strikes. And then, like the seal being broken on a jar of pickles, the cowl detached itself neatly from Batman's neck just in time for the Scissor Man to give one last gung-ho pull to free himself.

The Scissor Man skittered backward, eyes wide in horror. Batman grabbed him by the throat and pounded him into the pavement. A cold wind blew across the back of his sweat-drenched neck.

He froze. _Cold. Neck. _He looked at the ground around him for just long enough to determine that his cowl was clutched in long, sharp steel fingers. _Shit_. His cowl was off, his face was fully exposed, and he was in the middle of a crowd of onlookers. _Shit._ And they were all armed with those thrice-damned camera phones, all clicking away like he was a celebrity on the red carpet.

_Shit_!

His cover was completely blown, his compatriots' identities were about to become public knowledge, and life as he knew it would never be the same. At least the Scissor Man was no further threat - suffering an _accidental_ punch to the trachea meant that the most villainous thing he'd be up to for a while would be fighting to breathe properly. Batman secured the feebly kicking rogue to the nearest immovable object, scooped up the remains of his cowl, and disappeared into the night.

There was a moment of unsure silence in the street, punctuated only by the labored wheezing of the man handcuffed to the lamppost. Then, as if the end of the era had been officially declared, thumbs raced across tiny keypads. The air filled with a chorus of gentle beeps as the pictures of Bruce Wayne in Batman's armor exploded into Gotham.

(_to be continued_)


	2. The End of the Beginning

_Batman was Bruce Wayne_.

The news swept across the city, spreading from the fight site outward like the blast of a nuclear bomb. Phones rang across the city as the word ricocheted around Gotham.

_Batman was Bruce Wayne_.

It didn't even take ten minutes for the word to spread to the news stations. Newspaper workers frantically tore the half-printed papers from their reels to make room for the new front-page story. Radio stations blared the news to the fraction of people who were bothering to listen. News anchors were rudely hauled out of bed and dragged to the stations where they read the news with shock in their voices and sleep in their eyes.

_Batman was Bruce Wayne_.

Golden fronds of sunlight slowly crept across the city. One by one, the citizens of Gotham arose to a realm that no longer had the Dark Knight in command.

* * *

Bruce had a plan for this situation, of course. Bruce had plans for any conceivable situation that could possibly happen. If radioactive mutant rabbits had taken up residence in the sewers, within minutes Bruce could have retrieved at least five separate plans for getting rid of them as well as everything he'd need to get the job done.

The Batmobile roared into the cave. Alfred, standing patiently by the parking area, waited until Batman had exited the car before stepping forward. "Master Bruce - "

"_Armageddon_, Alfred. Did you initiate it?"

"Everything's ready, Master Bruce. Is this really necessary?" Alfred asked, already guessing the answer.

Bruce yanked what was left of his cowl off of his head and threw it over a railing. It clattered noisily into the abyss. "Pictures," he snapped. "Pictures of me without the cowl from every angle. I could break into every phone and alter every picture - but it wouldn't matter. Everyone there saw Bruce Wayne in Batman's armor. It's over."

Alfred closed his eyes, taking one long calming breath. When he reopened them, Bruce had skinned out of his armor, leaving it in a trail across the floor. Alfred automatically bent to retrieve it. The armload of armor thudded to the floor as he realized what he was doing.

"Get to the stairs, Alfred," Bruce ordered tiredly as he typed orders into the computer. Alfred silently moved to the stairs, taking one last look around the space that had housed every ounce of Master Bruce's drive and determination.

Bruce typed the final command into the computer and stalked away, pulling a silk robe over his sweat-streaked shirt as he followed Alfred. The pair of them hurried up the stairs as a series of doors sealed themselves tightly behind them.

In the darkness of the abandoned cave, the enormous monitor blinked quietly. Flashes of light gleamed from the glass cases covering the trophies and vanished silently into the dull blackness of the equipment storage rooms. The bats above chittered softly as they shifted into more comfortable clusters.

A low, dull rumble throbbed through the air. The floor began to quake, juddering up and down as if a volcano was attempting to rise from the earth below. Then, with a sharp _crack_, the long sloping floor of the cave detached and slid toward the abyss. Explosions rocked the floor, melting armor and batarangs into useless slag. The trophies in their cases tumbled and shattered as they spilled over the edge. Jason's long-unused costume disappeared in a cloud of dust and smoke. The various Bat-vehicles vanished with squeals of rubber and shrieks of tortured metal as bombs detonated all around them. The computer, with a firework display of sparks, shorted itself out as the floor beneath it tipped it neatly into the lake that filled the canyons below.

A choking cloud of steam and smoke billowed from the surface of the water deep underground. Steady streams of rubble fell from above, covering the wrecked equipment with a layer of stone that would take months to shift. Slowly, ponderously, the cave settled back into stillness.

* * *

Inside the Iceberg Lounge, a party to rival any party thrown through the history of time was rattling the rafters. Killer Croc and Bane were doing a last-second-touchdown-esque stomping dance in the corner, belting one another on the shoulders as they chanted "No more Bat! No more Bat!" The Mad Hatter, drunkenly propped up against an iceberg, giggled madly to his crowd of henchmen. "_'The crow must have flown away, I think,' said Alice: 'I'm so glad it's gone. I thought it was the night coming on.'_" Two-Face, with a girl (and a drink) on each side of him, was loudly enumerating the various charges that Bruce would be facing.

The Joker and the Riddler, however, were sitting glumly in a dim little corner by the fire extinguisher. They stared morosely at their untouched drinks, staring blankly at the condensation on the glasses as it dripped into puddles on the table.

The Riddler moodily traced a question mark over and over on the table with his gloved forefinger. What good was an answered riddle? It had been fun to be the only man in Gotham to know the Batman's true identity. Well, the only _respectable_ man, he amended, watching Hugo Strange caper about madly while singsonging "I was right, I was right, I was riiiight!" And at least _he'd_ had the decency to solve the riddle without cheating, unlike _some_ mannequin-loving crazed ex-psychiatrists that he could name.

What was he going to do without Batman? Who else in this godforsaken city could possibly keep up with his brilliant schemes? Being the smartest man in Gotham didn't mean very much if his nearest competition was a good twenty IQ points away from him.

The Joker stared at his own glass, his trademark grin turned down at the corners. What was he going to do? Batman, his deliciously dour and dismal Dark Knight, was in fact Bruce Wayne, a man who wouldn't know serious if it bit him on the backside! His ultimate straight man was a do-nothing millionaire playboy! If this was life's punchline, he wasn't laughing. How could Batman _do_ this to him?

No, it hadn't been Batman. It had been that weasel of a newcomer that had exposed the Bat for who he really was. That two-bit upstart had ruined _everything_. Oooh, if he only had that Scissor Man within reach, he'd wring his scrawny little neck until his trachea collapsed.

The Riddler cleared his throat, interrupting the Joker's pleasant thoughts. "_What_?" he snarled, like a tiger rudely awoken from a dream about unguarded baby rabbits.

"Your drink."

The Joker looked down to see that his purple-gloved fingers were gripping the plastic glass so hard that it had cracked open, sending his lime-green beverage spilling over his hands. Instead of brushing it off with a joke, he crossly tossed the offending cup into the corner.

Harley Quinn, half-drunk on joy and half-drunk on cosmopolitans, whirled by on the Penguin's arm. The Joker muttered something inaudibly vengeful in her direction and placed a foot carefully in his waddling host's path. The frolicking twosome tripped and tumbled into the dance floor, causing a minor domino effect as they thudded into other revelers. They finally came to a stop against one of the large fake icebergs that lined the wall, accompanied by a loud _crack_ which meant that this particular decoration was destined for the garbage heap.

"It just won't be the same," the Riddler muttered.

"Mmm?" the Joker grunted, more interested in the wreckage than the Riddler.

"Life without Batman." The Riddler flicked his glass, watching the green liquid inside sloshing dangerously close to the edge. "What are we going to do?"

The Joker frowned. Life without Batman - what a completely unamusing thought. Oh, naturally he'd tried to lightheartedly kill the man more than once, but he always knew in the back of his delightfully disorganized mind that he'd escape and live to play another day.

What _would_ they do without Batman? He couldn't fathom life without his crummy little Caped Crusader sticking his batty nose into everything. He surely must have had some fun in the life he'd had before Batman, but all of those memories had long ago been locked away in one of the many crackly disused areas of his mind. No, life without Batman would be impossible, which meant...

"We have to get Batsy back," the Joker announced.

"What?" the Riddler spluttered, choking on his drink.

"You heard me. Are you in?"

The Riddler took a moment to think about it. On one hand, life was looking like it was going to hold a lot fewer trips to the hospital wing at Arkham. No more broken bones, no more missing teeth, no more bat-shaped welts from those irritating batarangs... On the other hand, no Batman meant no more riddles.

"I'm in," he said instantly. "Do you have any ideas?"

They conferred quickly in the corner, making a quick list of potential Bat-retrieval methods on one of Eddie's many handy notebooks. Somewhere amid the flurry of jokes, anagrams, and flawed ideas, a delightful scheme emerged. It was simple. It was unpredictable. Best of all, it'd give everyone what they wanted, whether they knew they wanted it or not.

The Joker sauntered to the bar and hopped on top of it, planting his spatted feet firmly on either side of the beer taps. "Attention!" he called. The thirty-odd rogues in the room continued dancing and drinking, completely failing to hear him. With a theatrical sigh, the Joker pulled a handgun from inside his coat and fired at the jukebox. When one bullet didn't seem to have any effect, he unloaded the rest of his gun. The swiss-cheesed jukebox groaned to a halt as the roomful of rogues turned questioning eyes in his direction. Harley, remembering her henchgirl duty, skipped to the Joker's side and lounged at his feet.

"Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears - or anyone else's ears that you happen to have handy," the Joker grinned. "Myself and my erstwhile companion have been discussing this unanticipated situation." The Riddler, pen flying in his notebook, waved vaguely at the crowd with his free hand. "We've been mulling over the general future of Gotham, as well as the sad lack of -"

"Get to the point, clown," Ivy grumbled from her nest of vines in the center of the dance floor.

He mockingly bowed in her direction. "Pammy needs her beauty sleep, so I'll make it short. We need Batman back."

A roar of protest went up from the villainous crowd. The Joker crossed his arms and waited, theatrically tapping one toe until the protests grumbled into silence. "You! Monsieur Freeze! You'd like to see the people of the world die a slow, icy death, correct?" Freeze nodded curtly. "And you, Firefly - burn it all, right?" Firefly gave the Joker a fervent thumbs-up. "I know dear little Pammy wants the world covered in jungles. I'd prefer to keep the world laughing, while the good Doctor Crane wants them screaming. We appear to be ever so slightly at cross purposes, my friends."

"Fighting each other isn't exactly a new concept," Ivy pointed out smugly.

"I know you'd rather take on a roomful of men rather than just one, Pammikins, but some of your companions might have a different opinion," the Joker said sweetly. A number of the rogues shifted in place, considering the future if their lives turned from 'us vs. them' to 'us vs. us'.

"Aside from all that - what fun would it be without Batman?" the Riddler asked, tucking his pencil behind his ear. "If we wanted to work without Batman showing up, we would have left Gotham years ago. The police here are no match for us - hell, most of them used to work for us! We don't need costumes or traps or cleverness to outwit the cops. Without Batman, we may as well be ordinary thugs."

A rumble of discontent rolled through the crowd. Now that they thought about it, there was a certain cachet about being a rogue in Gotham. True, other cities had other heroes to deal with, but none of them required a lot of plans to get around. Paint yourself yellow, grab some Kryptonite, or arm yourself with fire and some Oreos, and you were pretty much set to wreak havoc wherever you went - and any idiot could do that.

Harley, perched by the Joker's right foot, clapped her hands. "I agree with Mistah J," she said loyally. "We've gotta get the Bat back!"

"So how do we do that, exactly?" someone called from the back of the room.

A mischievous smile unwound itself across the Joker's face. "Oh, that's the _fun_ part," he beamed. "Come closer, children, and listen well. Here's what we'll do first..."

(_to be continued_)


	3. Pas de Deux

There were, of course, a very limited number of ways to contact the Batman. The police managed rather easily - after all, they were outfitted with a specially constructed spotlight designed exclusively for Bat-summoning, not to mention the vigilante's possible cell phone connection with a certain high-ranking officer.

If you were a rogue trying to get his attention, however, things got a little trickier. Now that the word was out about his secret identity, calling Wayne Manor and asking for Batman seemed on the surface like a good idea. When the rogues had tried, clustered around the Penguin's phone booth like a group of schoolgirls making prank calls at a slumber party, no one had answered the Manor's phone. So, naturally, they had to move on to a slightly more tried and true way of inviting Batman to their party.

Across Gotham, television screens flickered away from their usual fare of talk shows and highly scripted reality television. A small dot in the center of the screens exploded outward to reveal a man perched on a lighted stairway, resplendent in a spangled purple suit complete with top hat and cane. "Greetings, Gotham!" the Joker trilled, "and welcome to Gotham's first annual Bring Back the Bat Extravaganza!" Curtains at the top of the stairway parted to reveal a spotlit Bat-symbol over a hastily-painted skyline.

The Joker soft-shoed his way down the stairs, twirling his cane skillfully in one hand as he pattered to the floor. "We've got a great show planned for you tonight, folks! I, of course, will be entertaining you with some of my all-time best jokes and japes. The esteemed Harley Quinn will be leading the band with some _excellent_ musical numbers - show us what you've got, Harley!"

Harley, seated behind a monstrous set of drums, clacked her sticks together enthusiastically. "One two three four!" she cried, letting loose on the drums with every ounce of energy in her slight frame. Her bandmates, who had somewhat subtle chains attaching them to their stations, winced as their eardrums throbbed.

"That's enough, Harley," Joker called, framing his mouth with his hands and shouting. "Harley. Harley! HAAARLEEEEY!"

Harley triumphantly whacked the final hi-hat. "Rock 'n' roll!" she cheered, holding the sticks aloft.

"...right. And manning our phone banks are those dearest of souls, you know them, you love them, the rogues of Gotham City!" the Joker beamed, waving a hand to his left. Obligingly, the camera panned over to reveal nearly every rogue in the city seated at an array of long tables. A hodgepodge assortment of telephones littered the surface of every table, accompanied by a flood of papers and pencils. "Here's how it works, for those of you out there in TV Land. The Batman, rest his chiropterian little soul, has been away from our dear city for over a week now. And we want him back! Right?" he called over his shoulder. The rogues grunted noncommitally. "Right!" he went on chirpily. "So call in and show Batman your support. That number is 555-2827. That's 555-BATS. Remember - we want the Batman back!" The camera zoomed in close on the Joker's face as his smile stretched a little wider. His eyes narrowed with delicious mischief. "So call in," he purred softly, his voice dark with menace, "because we'll know if you don't."

The phones on the desk instantaneously sounded off with a chorus of off-key ringing. "Ah, our first callers!" he grinned cheerfully. "Stay tuned for lots more fun, because until the Batman's back, we're not going _anywhere_."

* * *

Bruce Wayne, formerly known as Batman, laid on the couch and stared listlessly at the ceiling.

Armageddon had gone almost exactly as he'd planned. The cave and its contents had been completely destroyed. Every member of his own personal crimefighting team had been sent off to the farthest corners of the earth under false names with a selection of disguises. Alfred had wanted to stay, but Bruce had forbade him. After all, if a SWAT team tracked him down and detonated their way through the walls of his hideout, he didn't want his oldest friend and mentor getting caught in the crossfire.

The cave was gone, his allies were gone, and here he sat, alone and idle. His hiding spot was well-stocked with food and entertainment...well, it was well-stocked with things that would feed and entertain the Batman, given that he was hiding out in one of the ancillary lesser Batcaves that dotted the city like a particularly nasty rash. Things that would entertain a newly de-batted Bruce Wayne were in short supply.

Originally, this wouldn't have been a problem. His plan had been to simply relocate to a satellite cave and continue life as Batman, discarding his Bruce Wayne identity like so much useless trash. In the days immediately following his unmasking, he'd sat by the television in the tiny cave and watched the news reports, anxiously awaiting the tidal wave of crime that was certain to sweep over the city once the various thugs and lowlifes discovered his absence.

Nothing had happened. There were murders and thefts, of course, but in a city the size of Gotham, murders and thefts were going to happen no matter who was watching from the rooftops. In fact, aside from the scathing daily editorials about his personal life, the city seemed to have continued on without him.

But he _had_ made a difference, he consoled himself. He had dragged the police force out of the mire of corruption and renewed their sense of justice. He had stopped robberies and thwarted more evil plans than he could remember. He had saved countless lives!

And he'd endangered and ended countless more. The cold hard fact of the matter was that since he'd been gone, the rogues had not shown their faces around Gotham once. Not _once_ had they deigned to lower themselves to a brawl with the police. Could it be that he was keeping them around, attracting them by the sheer force of his opposition? Could it be that in fighting them all these years, he'd encouraged them to kill and steal and ruin the lives of thousands of people?

Could it be that as Batman, he had given the rogues a reason to exist?

And so Bruce had given up. A set of armor stood uselessly in the corner with dust gathering in the cracks of the stylized muscles embossed on the torso. A bike, partially disassembled for cleaning, was scattered on the floor, forgotten. The police radio, the computer, the television, and all of the other electronic devices were turned off.

His eyes wandered over the ceiling, marking each dent and imperfection before aimlessly traveling onward. At last, weary of examining his surroundings, Bruce closed his eyes to wait for morning.

When he opened his eyes not an hour later, his vision was filled with a mischievous set of very familiar green eyes. Instinctively, he kicked into the air, dislodging the mysterious interloper on his abdomen and flipping himself into an upright combat position in one graceful move.

The intruder spun just as gracefully through the air and landed lightly on a dark and silent computer bank. "Hello to you too, handsome," Selina purred, leaping softly to the floor.

Bruce blinked, astonished. "How did you get in here?" he demanded. Sudden panic overtook him. If she'd been able to trace him here through his accounts, the others might be tracked down just as easily. Dick. Tim. _Alfred_.

"Relax," Selina shrugged, unshouldering her backpack. "I've known about these little hidey-holes for ages." Without really looking, she reached to her right and flipped a switch on the wall. Overhead lights _bzzzz_ed into life, banishing Bruce's comfortable darkness. He squinted against the sudden brightness.

When his eyes refocused, he saw Selina - dressed in a barista's uniform for some reason - digging around in her backpack. "What do you want?" he snapped.

Selina paused, one hand still buried in her pack. "I wanted to know how you were doing," she said seriously. "No one's seen you, no one's seen Batman -"

"No one's ever going to see Batman again," Bruce spat bitterly.

"Is that so?" Selina asked guardedly.

"The world's doing just fine without me. The police can handle the gangs, the other heroes can handle the world-saving, and the rogues have completely vanished since I went into hiding."

"That's not entirely true," Selina pointed out.

"Yes, obviously _you're_ still around, but -"

"No, that's not what I meant. You need to see this." With one firm hand, she guided Bruce to the couch and seated him in the center, curling up on the cushion next to him with her cell phone resting on the arm of the couch. After they were suitably comfortable, she snagged the remote and turned the little television on.

The screen filled with an image of the Joker juggling little palm-sized bombs with his face gaudily imprinted on each one. In the background, an off-key rendition of Yakety Sax blared wildly as he struggled to keep all seven bombs going in the correct direction. One bomb snagged on his brightly sequined tuxedo sleeve and spiraled wildly off-screen. The image bounced and refocused on the bomb laying in the very center of a bank of tables staffed with all of Gotham's most infamous.

"Heads up!" the Joker yelled, scrambling onscreen with the remaining six bombs in his hands. "She's gonna blow! Women and children to the lifeboats!" He flung himself backward as the bomb started jittering in place.

Rogues overturned their chairs and hustled away, moving as fast as humanly (or in some cases, inhumanly) possible. The lone exception was Poison Ivy, who maintained a state of languid defiance in her throne of vines at the table behind the bomb.

"Uh, Pammy...the bomb?" the Joker called offscreen.

"It's not live. I'm not falling for it, Joker."

"Your loss. Nice knowing ya!"

The little bomblet _crack_ed open, spewing green and purple liquid in festive swags wildly into the air (and into a certain green-skinned person's seat made of mutant shrubbery).

"I did _warn_ you, Pammy," the Joker said cheerfully, ignoring the death-glare coming from behind him. "Let's have a big hand for Poison Ivy, who's been such a _colorful_ character on our show so far..." Ivy, dripping purple and green paint, made an extremely obscene gesture at the camera and stomped away.

Bruce watched as the Joker began to juggle the six bombs that were left. The rest of the rogues took their seats, avoiding the splashes of paint that had landed on nearly every surface in the area. Beside him, Selina deftly slipped the phone down behind her crossed feet and pressed a few buttons. He pretended not to notice. After all, she couldn't possibly be doing anythi-

Lights flashed onscreen as if the telethon had been transformed into a disco. Sirens wailed discordantly as puffs of confetti streamed down from the ceiling, accompanied by streamers and the occasional fist-sized dust bunny. The Joker beamed at the camera, glowing like a sun going nova. "Hellloooo, Batman! It's been _so_ long since we had a nice chat. Oh! I know!" He clapped his hands. "Let's play a little game, shall we?"

He trotted to the left. The cameraman obediently followed him until he stopped at a large purple curtain. With one arm dramatically extended, he grabbed the golden pull-cord and yanked on it with all his might.

The curtain fell to reveal the Scissor Man, lightly bruised, bound in what had to be six rolls of duct tape. He dangled helplessly in midair above a vat containing something blue and gloppy. On the couch, Selina sat bolt upright, pinning the television with an angry glare.

The Joker gestured proudly at his latest deathtrap. "Oh, Bats, I know what you're thinking - you're thinking that a vat of acid is _so_ last year. Well, don't worry - _this_ is a vat of toxic waste. If he's dropped in, why, just about _anything_ could happen to him! Will he gain superpowers? Will he drown? Or will he simply get cancer and die? Only you can save him, Batsy ol' buddy. You've got three hours!" The camera panned over to reveal a giant stopwatch. "Aaaaand..._go! _See you soon, Bat-breath!"

Bruce snatched the remote from Selina's hand and turned the television off. "Want some help with your armor?" she grinned, raising a seductive eyebrow.

"No," he growled.

"I'll just sit back and enjoy the show, then," Selina chuckled.

"I'm not putting on any armor. I'm not going."

"What?" she gasped.

"I'm not going," he repeated bluntly. "I'm not Batman. Not anymore."

"You have to save him, or he'll die," Selina explained, slowly, as if telling a child why he shouldn't touch a hot stove.

He glared at her. "You're a part of this scheme. I saw you texting him. You _knew_ he was going to kill him. _You_ go save him."

"I didn't know he was going to kill anybody!" she snapped defensively.

"He's the _Joker_," Bruce snarled. "What else would he possibly do?"

"You have to go! He's not going to stop until you show up!"

"He's not going to stop if I _do_ show up." Bruce corrected. "Every time I put on that armor, I only encourage him to hurt more people. It's beyond time that I realized that what I do - what I _did_ - doesn't help anyone."

"I can't believe you're saying this."

"I will not do anything to encourage that madman to hurt anyone else. The Scissor Man may die if I don't save him. But what about the hundreds of lives I can save by not letting the Joker bait me into showing up?"

"You're right," Selina said coldly. "You're _not_ Batman. Batman would do whatever he could to save a life."

He silently watched her as she swung her backpack over one shoulder and stalked out of the cave. Yes, Batman _would_ do whatever he could to save the Scissor Man - and in doing so, he'd doom all of Gotham to endless attacks by the rogues.

He wasn't going to play that game any more. He laid back down on the couch and rolled over, turning his back to the television. The Scissor Man would die so that Gotham could be free. It was horrible, but that was how it had to be.

Bruce shut his eyes.

* * *

"So, Scissy," the Joker said, playfully walking his fingers over the large lever that would drop the hapless rogue to his gooey death. "Know any good jokes?"

The Scissor Man, nearly catatonic with fear, shook his head violently. "Mmm mmm _mmm_," he explained through the large X of duct tape that was secured firmly over his lips. At the phone bank, the Scarecrow watched intently, ignoring his madly ringing phone in favor of taking notes on the Scissor Man's nearly unprecedented level of non-toxin-induced terror.

"No? Oh, that's too bad," the Joker cooed, slowly sliding his cupped hand over the end of the lever. "I had hoped your last words would be entertaining."

"MMMM! _Mmmm mmm MMMM_!" the Scissor Man screamed, wiggling in place like a worm on a hook.

The Joker looked theatrically at the giant clock ticking down the time. "Only a few more minutes to go. I hope Batsy didn't have any trouble getting into his tights," he leered.

The stage door slammed open. Selina Kyle, in full Catwoman regalia, stormed in. Her whip, held loosely in her right hand, twitched behind her as she paced toward the Joker. "He's not coming," she growled. The rest of the rogues in the room turned their attention on the newcomer, settling in to watch the fun with no intention of interrupting it.

"That's ridiculous," the Joker snapped. "We've got the guests, the entertainment, the invitation...the man _has_ to come to his own party!"

Catwoman's booted foot rocketed out and caught the clown in his midsection, sending him staggering back into the phone banks. She grabbed the lever and yanked it down with all the fury of a lioness denied her kill. The Scissor Man let out a muffled howl as he plummeted toward the glowing blue goop in the bottom of the tank.

With practiced ease, Catwoman lashed out with her whip. It snaked around the duct-taped man's midsection, pulling tight as she redirected his fall onto the concrete floor. He hit the ground like a side of beef and lay there, stunned.

"Hey! That's _my_ hostage!" the Joker wheezed, brushing off his sequined suit jacket as he pulled himself from the wreckage of the table that he'd landed on. "Get your own!"

Catwoman, ignoring him, flicked out a claw and sliced through the yards of duct tape that covered the Scissor Man. "Come on," she ordered, hauling him to his feet.

"_Mmm mmm_ -"

"Later. Come _on_," she snapped, shoving him toward the exit.

A purple-sequined barrier eclipsed their path. "I said that he's _mine_," the Joker said softly.

There was a blur of purple motion. It ended with the Joker slammed against a wall with clawed fingertips resting gently on his exposed neck. "Batman's not coming back because of _you_," Catwoman snarled quietly. "He's gone, and it's _your_ fault, not his." The Scissor Man pawed gently at his mouth, trying to pry the tape off without stabbing himself with his scissor fingers. "There's no more Batman. Get used to it," she added bitterly, turning on her heel and stalking back over to the Scissor Man. "_Move_," she ordered. The Scissor Man obediently scampered ahead, tape dangling in his wake like a set of streamers. The door slammed shut with a final-sounding _thud_.

The Joker tapped a finger on his lips, ignoring the pinpricks of blood that were beginning to stand out on his neck. A smile slowly crept across his face like the first rays of light from a rising sun. "I was _hoping_ it would come to this," he grinned. "Gentlemen, ladies...others," he smiled at Poison Ivy, who tried to fry him with the force of the hate in her gaze.

"To arms!"

(_to be continued_)


	4. The Dark Knight Brought to Light

Gotham had been threatened almost countless times in the past few years. There had been vicious gang wars and violent disagreements between the various worldwide organizations that wanted a foothold in Gotham. The city had managed to survive through fire, floods, diseases, plagues of rats, invading vegetation, fear gas in the sewers, blizzards in July, spies, corruption, American Idol auditions, and an almost countless list of other disasters that might have obliterated a city without Batman orchestrating relief efforts from the moment that they started.

Now, of course, Gotham _was_ a city without Batman watching out for it, and no one was particularly pleased.

The telethon had ended abruptly. Viewers across Gotham, expecting Batman to swoop in and save the day, instead watched in horror as the Joker ordered his fellow rogues to arms. And then...nothing. The telethon disappeared from their screens faster than a new show disappeared from the Fox network.

All over Gotham, people prepared for the worst. Shops sold out of food and ammunition at record paces. Doors were chained, dead-bolted, and barred with couches and dressers. It was rather like preparing for a hurricane, except a hurricane was unlikely to hold you at gunpoint for several hours or run you through a twisted maze of traps for its own amusement.

The police sat anxiously in their cruisers, watching the empty streets. They drove at a snail's pace through deserted areas that normally would be bustling with recreational chemists and ladies of negotiable affection. Even Gotham's sizeable population of homeless denizens had holed up in the least rusty dumpsters they could find.

The radios hissed to life. "Break-in reported at 559 King Street, code 3 -" The radio cut out for a moment. "Break-ins reported at 559 King Street and 1350 G Street, proceed..." The radio fuzzed into static again. The dispatcher, voice beginning to tremble with a tiny bit of uncertainty, rattled off address after address. Some were being burgled, some were on fire, and some were being transformed into villainous fortresses with the aid of razor wire and crates of things that went _boom_.

Gotham lit up like a dollar store Christmas tree as police zoomed off in all directions. SWAT teams followed in black, blocky vans, accompanied by wailing fire engines and the occasional ambulance.

Prioritizing the heists quickly turned into a nightmare. The Joker was robbing Gotham First National, the largest and most vital bank in Gotham City. Was that more or less urgent than stopping the Scarecrow from plundering Ace Chemical, or Killer Croc from his smash-and-grab tour of every jewelry store he could find? The more personal question being asked by nearly every cop on the force was this: what rogue can I try to arrest without dying horribly?

"But Batman will show up," a rookie cop said confidently to his partner as they peeked out from behind their squad car, weapons aimed squarely at the doors to Gotham's only branch of the Fifth Third Bank.

The other cop snorted disdainfully. Red and blue lights flashed off of his name badge, catching in the lines and whorls of the word BERTRIN stamped deeply into the metal. "Bats isn't showing up for anything, kid. _Catwoman_ had to save that scissor guy. Do you really think she'd have stuck her neck out for some nobody if Bats was around?"

"Dunno. Never met her," the rookie shrugged, eyes glazing momentarily at the mental image of Catwoman doing that great come-hither shimmy that all the other guys wouldn't shut up about. He shook himself out of it, trying to ignore the smirk crawling across his partner's face. "He'll show," he said stubbornly. "He has to. He's Batman."

"Not anymore," Bertrin reminded him bluntly. "Anyway, if he _did_ show, we're supposed to arrest him too." The doors to the bank rattled in their hinges. Forgetting all else, the pair of cops tensed up, glaring at the door as if they were daring it to open. "_Come out with your hands up_!" the rookie bawled.

"Are you sure?" a voice like silk called from inside.

"Put your hands on your head and step outside!" Bertrin barked.

"If you say so." The door slammed open with all the force of a NASCAR crash.

There was a flash of light so bright that it burned redly through the cops' hastily shut eyelids. And then, before they had time to fire their weapons, it was all over.

* * *

Old habits, as they say, die hard. Alcoholics will never be able to have just one drink ever again. Ex-smokers in a tight spot will dream of that one little stick of happiness that would make the world all right again.

Ex-heroes had it even worse. It was nearly impossible to do even a simple thing like walking down the street without spying half-a-dozen people with runaway dogs or freshly dropped groceries. For Bruce Wayne, who had spent most of his adult life doing nothing but heroics, laying in hiding underground while the rogues ran wild in _his city_ - er, in Gotham - was driving him mad.

He paced back and forth in front of the television, eyeing the remote control that had so recently been in Selina's hands. Did he dare to turn the television on?...no. No, he couldn't. Once the television was on, once he saw Gotham in flames, he would have to go and stop it. But if he showed so much as a Batarang outside, the rogues would only be encouraged to do this again and again. No. He had to stay firm and not go outside, and step one of staying firm was not turning on the television.

Distractions. He needed distractions. He scrabbled through the meager selection of entertainment in the cave. Crossworld puzzles...no. A tattered copy of Alice in Wonderland...No. Deck of cards...NO!

He slammed the drawer shut, cursing the day that he'd forbidden Dick to keep any of his silly video games or movies here.

Wait a minute. He frowned, narrowing his eyes in concentration. Whenever he gave an order like 'No video games in the Batcave', Dick usually found a way around it. If those things weren't _in_ the Batcave, they surely would have been stowed just outside...that is, unless Dick had taken them with him when he'd moved on to Bludhaven.

The ceiling had several hatches for wiring and forced ventilation. He felt around inside each of them, coming back with nothing but dusty fingers. Without thinking, he opened the door to the hidden entrance, slamming it just as quickly as he realized what he was doing.

A traitorous whiff of fresh air brushed his face. Smoke. Heavy smoke on the wind. Something big was burning, and since this lair was located in the middle of Gotham's business district, there were several unappealing choices as to which property was currently _en flambe_.

He stood behind the closed door in an agony of indecision. If Batman showed his cowl on the streets, the rogues would know that all it took was a really _big_ threat to the city to lure him out. From that moment on, the city of Gotham would be in perpetual mortal danger. On the other hand, there were people out there _right now_ burning, bleeding, and dying, and it could all be stopped if he just went out there. What was worth more, the lives of people now or the lives of people later?

He stiffened as an idea shot up his spine and into his brain. Then, without a single motion wasted, he slapped the television on and dove for the equipment locker.

* * *

It had ended within seconds. The rogue had tumbled onto the stairs, harlequin checks and yellow-and-black stripes blurring together as he twisted impossibly through the air. The two officers had tried uselessly to track him, guns searching hopelessly for a target as the man with the wild red hair bobbed and weaved bonelessly through the air.

Then the searing flash of light had lit up the air, glaring spotlight-bright and burning away the officers' night vision. When they could see clearly again, a caped figure was ratcheting the last of several sets of cuffs into place on the unconscious rogue, who had been none-too-gently wrapped around the nearest lamppost.

"I _told_ you he'd come," the rookie said smugly.

Bertrin squinted at the caped man. Something didn't look quite right. "Batman?" he asked tentatively. The caped figure launched himself back into the night. "Huh," Bertrin muttered, holstering his gun.

Similar scenes played out across Gotham. Standoffs were brusquely stood down, holdups were held off, and perpetrators of break-ins were swiftly broken. One by one, the rogues of Gotham City and their henchmen were taken down.

It might have taken longer if the rogues had been engaged in world-ending plans. If, say, he'd had to battle through each rogue's individual headquarters, laced with traps and guards, he probably wouldn't have been able to take out more than two or three before the sun came up. However, they had mostly chosen to simply destroy large swathes of the city, and what could be easier than taking down a rogue in the open? It was made particularly easy due to the fact that there were only so many henchmen available for hire at a given time, so no one had ended up with their normal small armies of subordinates. Even the police had managed to subdue a number of the offenders. At four in the morning, there was only one group left to capture.

Gotham First National was set up to impress future customers. _Look at our shiny bank vault_, the architecture seemed to say. _Look at our fancy chandeliers and our hand-carved marble statues. Surely we should be the ones to hold all your money!_ (The question of whose money actually paid for the statues and such never seemed to cross a prospective client's mind, for some reason.)

Of course, having a big shiny vault door in the middle of the room meant that there was lots of space for an enterprising clown to rig devices to blow it open. Bombs festooned across the door ticked in merry countdowns. Sticks of dynamite lay on the floor, wired to more dynamite dangling from the ceiling. The whole room was stuffed with explosives and henchmen scurrying about to tend them.

The Joker stuck his tongue out at the clock glimmering expensively on the wall. Four in the morning and the Bat _still_ hadn't shown up! Well, at least he could amuse himself by playing Whack-A-Mole with the tellers' ever-so-shiny computers...

The bank door opened quietly. A man strode in. It wasn't Batman - at least, the costume wasn't Batman's. True, there was a cowl, but it was devoid of any kind of Bat-ears or scowling eyebrows stamped into its surface. And yes, there was a cape, but it was flat across the bottom. On the chest of the armor, where a bat normally glistened like a bullseye, was nothing but blankness.

"A little underdressed, aren't we?" the Joker scoffed, sliding his hands into his pockets. His fingers curled lovingly around the handle of his favorite knife.

The man who wasn't Batman crossed his arms. "It's over, Joker."

"Au contraire, Bat-breath! It's just beginning!" the Joker cried, waving an arm at his spiderweb of explosives. "The bank is only the overture. Oooh, what _fun_ we're going to have...what are you doing?"

Bruce unsealed the cowl and tossed it carelessly away. The armor followed, clacking softly against the marble floors. He stood, alone, nothing but a man in a set of extremely sweaty and lightly singed gym clothes.

"I am not Batman. Nothing you can do will ever make me put that cowl back on."

"Nothing?" the Joker asked innocently. His knife twirled and shone in his fingers like a magic wand.

"I would rather die than see you kill this city," Bruce said softly. "So go ahead. Do what you've always wanted to." He spread his arms wide, leaving himself completely exposed. "Kill me."

All activity in the room came to an immediate halt. Henchmen stared wide-eyed at the Batman offering himself like a lamb trotting eagerly into an abattoir. The Joker strolled across the floor, lightly tossing his knife in one hand. With a snakelike twist, he swiftly snuggled close around Bruce's back with the knife held lightly at his throat.

Bruce closed his eyes and raised his chin, waiting for the end. Seconds ticked away as he stood there, unresisting.

The knife clattered to the floor as the Joker stalked away. "Shut it down," he snapped at his handful of henchmen. "We've got better things to do." The henchmen leaped instantly into action, shutting off timers and unwiring bombs from their perches.

"But _boss,_" Harley whined, tugging on his jacket sleeve. "Can't we just-"

_Wham_. The force of the Joker's backhand spun her into a nearby desk. "I said that we're _leaving_," he snarled.

"Right, boss. Sure thing," Harley agreed around a rapidly swelling lower lip.

The henchmen skulked out of the building, trailed by Harley. The Joker paused on the threshold, looking back at his oldest rival. Police lights flashed red and blue around his purple silhouette. "You're no fun anymore," he said flatly. With that, he turned on one spatted heel and trudged away.

(_to be concluded_)


	5. Castling

_Three years later_

Robinson Park was a beautiful place in the summer, particularly when Poison Ivy was locked securely away in Arkham Asylum. The sun shone merrily on leafy trees and blooming flowers, both of which had been inspected recently to make sure that they didn't harbor any nasty little surprises.

Dogs frisked happily through the grass, catching frisbees and yapping inanely at one another. New mothers with dark circles under their eyes pushed strollers along the paths, telling one another stories that would make their children cringe with embarrassment when they were old enough to understand them. Under a tree, at a concrete chessboard, two men idly chatted as they played.

"How's business?" the dark-haired one inquired, rolling a pawn in his fingers before setting it gently back on the board.

The other man rolled his eyes, which were barely visible below the brim of his baseball cap. "Can't complain, I suppose. We finally got the last attraction up and running, but I'm sure you already knew that. The money's nice, of course," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"Edward Nygma's Puzzle Palace," the dark-haired man chuckled. "You didn't waste any time, did you?"

"Reputations are useful," the ex-Riddler shrugged. "Or would your chiropteran chorus line disagree with me?"

Bruce didn't rise to the bait. It was true that he'd had a surplus of volunteers when he had offered to sponsor a corps of policemen and women specializing in the capture and transport of Gotham's crew of costumed criminals. It was somewhat reassuring to know that there was an entire squadron of people that lived up to his exacting standards patrolling Gotham day and night. Still, he would miss that rock-hard certainty of the city's improvement that came with taking out criminals with his bare hands.

The recipient of many of those late-night pummeling sessions was looking at him with an amused smile. "Not as fun as the old days, wouldn't you say?"

Bruce allowed the merest hint of a glare to creep into his eyes. "I wouldn't exactly call the old days _fun_," he pointed out.

"Maybe not for you." Eddie shifted a bishop across the board. "You've heard about Joker," he said flatly.

Bruce nodded curtly. He had somewhat been expecting the news, though to be frank he had been expecting it a lot sooner.

The Joker, having declared his entire criminal career to be no fun anymore, had submitted tamely to the most elaborate and exhaustive round of therapy and medication that Arkham had to offer. After months of tests, treatments, and trial forays into the world, he had been declared to be as sane as anyone else in Gotham. He had been a free man for almost a year. True, he was a free man who was required to check in with his local law enforcement every two weeks, but he was still free to walk the streets in broad daylight, something that had previously been unthinkable.

He had also acquired a job, something that had seemed as unlikely as Gotham going a full week without a world-ending disaster. It had been a nice little boring job in a nice little boring suburb of Gotham - that is, until his nice little boring boss had pried a little too deeply into his newest employee's past to discover that under the brown hair dye and layers of cosmetics lurked the Joker himself. The Joker - or, rather, Lyle Anderson - had been promptly fired for unspecified reasons.

"Can't say I blame them," Eddie shrugged, toying with his king. "I mean, who would really hire the Joker?"

Bruce clicked his rook into place. "I would."

Eddie stared at him blankly for a moment, then shook himself out of it with a rueful chuckle. "You would, wouldn't you," he said, neatly capturing Bruce's rook with his queen. "All those jobs you gave to us over the years. Aren't your stockholders going to be upset if you hire him?"

Bruce shrugged casually. They probably would be upset - that is, if they ever found out that he'd done it. He had managed to defend himself rather nicely from their hysteria when they had discovered that their CEO spent his time hopping rooftops and generally saving the day. They had wanted his head, and they had wanted him fired - and then when they realized that they could tie Batman in with all their products, they had wanted him as a mascot. Batman t-shirts! Batman cars! Batman shoes and cereal and toys and movies and power plants and amusement parks! In the end, he had remained as CEO and Batman had been firmly crossed off the list of potential corporate mascots.

"They'll adjust," he said, deftly replacing Eddie's last bishop with his own. "Everyone does, eventually."

It was true. The police had adjusted to being Gotham's main source of law enforcement. The rogues had adjusted in their own ways - some had gone straight, some had moved on to new towns, and others had simply gone on with life as usual. Even Harley had adjusted to life without the Joker, although she had merely replaced her adoration of him with her affection for Poison Ivy. And while gangs no longer looked over their shoulders for caped and cowled crusaders, they did keep their heads down around the new army of neighborhood watches that had sprung up like mad since Batman's disappearance.

Eddie quirked a knight around a row of pawns. "Check," he grinned.

Bruce twiddled his queen around his fingers. Then, with a flourish, he let it _click_ onto the board, dislodging the knight. "Checkmate," he countered.

Eddie studied the board with just a hint of his old there's-no-possible-way-you-could-have-won look. Then, with a short sigh, he stuck his hand out. They solemnly shook hands. "Same time next week?" he asked.

"Same time next week."


End file.
